


Disco and Unrhymed Poetry

by queenmab_scherzo



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Awkward Flirting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/pseuds/queenmab_scherzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean spends his summer working the overnight shift at an Orlando, Florida diner. When a really cute guy with a ponytail and an accent starts turning up at odd hours in the early morning, Dean may or may not try to get to know him better. It's all very subtle. Smooth, if you will. No dorky 70s soundtrack to speak of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disco and Unrhymed Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [circuschickadee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/circuschickadee/gifts).



> circuschickadee asked what i thought of an Aidean au where "you come into my 24hr diner at the oddest times bc of your weird job but you keep forgetting that we talk because youre always sleep deprived." 22 pages later .....

Dean gets it all the time—customers staring at his lips and asking if he's Australian or English or British or, one time, South African, which was admirable if no less annoying. And he is always  _that_  guy; to their face, he always smiles and corrects them ("I never would have guessed New Zealand," they exclaim;  _no one ever does_ , he thinks), but back in the kitchen, he always bitches about it to Luke, who mans the grill during the overnight shift.

"If one more person tells me they've  _always wanted to go to London_ , I think I will vomit in their food," Dean will say.

"Eugh," Luke will smile back, "if you have to be sick, don't contaminate all my hard work."

"Easier said than done."

"Aim for their shoes."

Luke Evans is a good friend.

Plus, they both know Dean is only posturing. He forgets these incidents practically as soon as they happen, and he's thrilled by the inevitable opportunity it provides to carry on about his home country. "Even the beaches here don't compare," he'll say, and most people eat it up, because there are plenty of Americans willing to believe the grass is greener on the other side of the ocean. They jump at the chance to complain how bad they've got it. Underdog syndrome.

They also jump at the chance to ask Dean about Peter Jackson, which is literally the only connection New Zealand seems to have with the rest of the world.

Anyway, everyone thinks he's British. Believes it with such exhilaration that the truth, when Dean breaks the news, seems to  _disappoint_  them, which is frankly insulting.

It's painfully ironic, then, that Dean can't tell the difference between a Scottish or Irish accent. At all. Actually, Luke confused him for awhile too, when they first met. Every once in awhile a burger patty falls apart when Luke tries to flip it on the grill and he'll curse in Welsh—that's what he told Dean it was, anyway—and Dean will realize with inescapable clarity just what a hypocrite he is.

It hardly ever comes up in Orlando, Florida, though. Outside of conversations with Luke, the last time Dean heard an accent that wasn't native to the United States was when he caught James McAvoy on "Good Morning America" after a long night shift.

So when this tallish, fit guy with a messy ponytail sits down at the diner's bar in the middle of the night, it's both baffling and electrifying to hear him speak in a throaty accent which is definitely—maybe?—sort of like James McAvoy's.

"Sorry, do you have coffee on this time of night?" he sighs, looking up at Dean with an apologetic smile. "Morning, I guess. Whatever it is."

Several dark curls have escaped his ponytail to hang around his ears. He blinks blearily and scratches at his stubble, which is a few hours past a five-o'clock-shadow. Dean's not offended by it, though. In fact, nearing the end of his own overnight, he only feels a surge of sympathy.

"'Course, the coffee's always brewing here."

The guest exhales a relieved laugh, says a gravelly "thanks," and lowers his forehead into his hands to scrub at his eyes.

About two months ago, Dean slid into the overnight shift at the 24-hour diner. It was around the time school let out. Dean had spent the term taking night classes and working retail at Disney, which is kind of like being force-fed cheesecake for three meals a day, and honestly Dean's not that into cheesecake, not the way a sane person's expected to be. So May comes around, classes wrap up, and Dean even passes one, mostly thanks to his totally type-A classmate Lee Pace, who insisted on study sessions fueled by flashcards and sangria. Dean feels pretty accomplished, at any rate, and figures the last thing he wants to swallow down is a whole summer of narcissistic tourists and small children with sticky hands, so he slept late one morning and instead of calling in sick, he called in a self-satisfied resignation.

He had no business quitting, of course. The city of Orlando costs a great deal, and moving even more so. Plus he's got his big hungry bear of a dog to feed. So after a couple days of eating cereal for dinner, Dean ventured into the world and found this homely diner tucked into a low-slung shopping center off OBT alongside a bowling alley, a dollar store, and a 24-hour emergency vet.

The night shift, though, that was a surprise. The owner, Sean, who bears an uncanny resemblance to his homely, low-slung diner, has proven to be a surly man. The kind who expects you to know what's going on without ever telling you. After Dean's first couple of training shifts, he dropped a real bombshell. "Next week you'll be ready to take orders on your own. See you for the eleven PM. Luke will be working the kitchen with you."

And that was that. Dean hadn't even met Luke at that point.

It turned out to be for the best, though. Summer days in Florida aren't to be wasted. Dean found out he could register for another night class over the summer, which might make up for that one he failed during the Spring term.

He has settled into a comfortable cycle of graphic design lectures, followed by eight-or-so hours at the diner, then sleep till three in the afternoon. To be honest, his schedule hasn't changed much from the Disney days.

The overnight shift has also turned out to be the one reason Dean looks forward to working. The patrons who come in between midnight and six AM fascinate and endear him. Sleepy people in sleepy clothes who pay with a card and tip in cash so they don't have to do math; nurses whose scrubs bear the wrinkles of a day's work; half-lost, hungry tourists; UCF students working on term papers and drowning in coffee; UCF students working off drunken stupors and drowning in coffee.

Everyone demands less in the middle of the night. Their blood slowed by the warm muggy night, every conversation rises and falls with the lull of cicadas. Patient cicadas. They don't mind waiting for their meal because it means two extra coffee refills.

Dean brings his only poor, tired customer that coffee now. The guy with the accent still has his elbows on the counter, head in his hands, and he might be asleep, actually, might be wilting under the bright indoor lighting and glare of stainless steel. Dean hesitates for a second. He takes note of the stained white T-shirt and the way fingertips bury themselves in loose, dark curls.

He usually wakes up customers when they fall asleep on him. Not for any selfish, financially-viable purposes, but rather for their own benefit since, more often than not, nighttime coffee-drinkers are on a deadline of some kind. This guy looks like he's just gotten off a long shift, not like he's headed off to one, but you never know.

Dean nudges his elbow with two fingers and slides the coffee into his line of sight.

"Cheers," he breathes, and looks up at Dean with big, red eyes. His eyelashes flutter, but he's still clinging to consciousness. He takes a swig from his mug and winces.

"Hot?"

"Oh, no, good, it's good," he hisses. "I just haven't had anything to eat since—what time is it?"

"Almost three."

"Christ, like twelve hours, then."

Dean's heart skids into his sternum. "Oh, my god. The kitchen's open, you know, you can have anything you want."

"You're amazing." The stranger smiles weakly, just a gentle tug at the corners of his mouth. "What do you serve this time of night?"

"Anything. Seriously, anything." Luke might not want to make "anything", but Dean finds he isn't capable of saying no to this guy, and that he doesn't care what Luke thinks, anyway. "You want a menu?"

"Er … what won't make me sick when I wolf it all down?" he asks, his eyes big and forlorn.

Where did this person come from, honestly? His eyebrows are insane. Dean can't tell if those puppy-eyes are intentional or not, but his joints are all turning to mush, regardless.

"Our cook makes a pretty good omelet. Cheese, vegetables, whatever meat you want?"

He settles on ham. When Dean brings the order to the kitchen, Luke makes a face and asks, "stoner crowd tonight?"

Dean laughs. "No, he just asked what was good."

"And you didn't tell him about my jalapeno-cream-cheese-burger?!"

"No, you see, he specifically asked me  _not_  to make him sick."

Dean dodges a roma tomato and escapes back to the dining room. There's still just the one person sitting at the counter staring into his coffee mug. Dean trots over and leans in for a better view. "You empty?"

The diner's head snaps up.

"Sorry!" Dean exclaims. "I'm so sorry, let me get you a refill."

He's laughing about it though, and when Dean sets the fresh coffee in front of him he positively beams, and Dean practically has to hold himself up by the edge of the counter, that smile is so lethal. Without even thinking, he grins back because he's helpless, because—

"You're amazing," the stranger says with that lilting foreign accent. "I could drink a whole pot of this, right now."

Dean swallows and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Yeah?" He clears his throat. "Well, go for it. I can always make more."

A better waiter would carry on with meaningless small talk, or try to upsell something. Dean, however, hasn't been doing this very long, and he's weak for guys with ponytails. From what he can tell, that ponytail is feebly taming some luscious curls, and so much for self-control, you know? So much for selling a side of fries while you're looking down two loaded barrels.

"You must really like coffee, to go through a whole pot at three in the morning."

Not that he's flirting very well, either.

"A bit," the stranger laughs. "I've been called an addict once or twice."

"Just a caffeine addict, I hope!"

Mercifully, Luke interrupts by calling in the order, saving Dean from any more awkward outbursts. It gives him a chance to find his bearings, and a chance to plan what he ought to say when he gets back.

As he slides the steaming omelet in front of their guest, Dean asks if he'd like cream and sugar, which are both turned down.

"We have Irish creamer in the back, too," Dean offers. It's the only remotely interesting flavor they carry.

The stranger bites his lip. "What're you trying to say?"

"—What?"

That smile again. "Just 'cause I'm Irish doesn't mean I only like Irish coffee."

"Oh—"  _oh my fucking Christ almighty_  "—oh, no, not at all, I just …"

He's laughing though. Dean feels breathless, totally suffocated by that laugh and the way the guy's eyes crinkle up.

"It's fine," he says, and he reaches out to pat Dean on the wrist, and so much for being a good waiter, at this point. "It's fine, mate, I'm just fucking with you."

"Right!" Dean exhales. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Got any Bailey's?"

"Oh—!"

"Kidding, I'm kidding."

Dean smiles weakly. Irish. That strikes Dean like a chest-deep wave. He takes a moment to commit it to memory, then realizes he's staring. He laughs and dashes toward the coffee pot to putter with—something,  _anything_. It's half-full, so he snatches up a towel and wipes at the little drips speckling the handle.

"So!" Dean says loudly. He means it to sound nonchalant, but it's probably too high-pitched to be convincing. "So—what brings you here?" He turns around and leans one hip on the counter.

The stranger shrugs as he cuts up his omelet with the side of his fork. "Nothing exciting, just school. Didn't get into any programs back home, but everyone in the U.S. is pretty desperate for international students."

"Oh, I meant—well,  _that's_  true," Dean says, reflecting on his own journey to North America. "But I meant tonight, really. What brings you here  _tonight_. To the diner."

"Oh, shit! Sorry, I'm—and here I gave you my fucking life story." He rolls his eyes, and Dean notices a pink flush bloom high on his cheeks.

"I don't mind!" Dean says in a rush. He steps forward again and leans his elbows on the counter. "How long have you been here?"

"In the diner, or in Florida?"

"In Florida!" Dean says with a burst of laughter.

The customer smiles, takes a deep breath, and rubs one eye. "…Two? Two years, I guess. A little more." He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully, then adds, with his mouth full, "Once you've been to New Smyrna on a nice day, kinda hard to drag yourself back to Dublin, you know?"

Dean  _doesn't_  know, exactly, but he finds himself smiling and nodding, anyway. "The one time I've been to New Smyrna Beach, I got kicked out after about ten minutes for letting my dog off his leash."

"You have a dog?!" the stranger brightens, despite the red eyes, and sits forward. "I love dogs. What kind?"

"Oh, just a mutt."

"But what is he though, like big or little? How old is he?" He's only halfway through his omelet but it lies completely forgotten in front of him.

Dean rubs the back of his head, then immediately tries to flatten his hair again. "He's about five. Part Staffordshire, part Irish wolfhound."

"Aw, he's a big boy!"

"He's a  _bear_ ," Dean agrees.

The stranger hums and leans his head against one hand, blinking slowly and smiling with his tongue between his teeth.

Dean clears his throat again. "A big lazy bear," he goes on. "All he wants to do is lay outside in the sun and roll in the flower garden. Total hippie."

"Does he get that from his dad?" he asks with a sluggish wink.

Dean has never left his number on a receipt, no matter how attractive the customer, and no matter how intensely they flirted throughout their meal—but Jesus, it takes some superhuman restraint tonight.

When he pays, he gives Dean a ten and a five and tells him to keep the change.

"Are you sure?!"

"Yeah," he says, flashing that smile again, and for a split second Dean feels as if he remembers that sunny day at New Smyrna Beach. "There's no use asking me to do the math."

"Thanks," Dean manages.

"No, thank  _you_! That pot of coffee is gonna get me home without falling asleep on the road!"

A better waiter would probably not let a tall, dark-haired customer walk out the door and leave behind a 100% tip, but a much  _worse_  waiter might have jumped said tall, dark-haired customer in the bathroom, and honestly Dean is kind of proud of where he's fallen on the spectrum, tonight.

* * *

 

Luke Evans gossips a lot and keeps bad 80s pop blaring in the kitchen at all hours and he's inexplicably obsessed with NBA basketball, but he's actually a pretty great coworker. He's part of the reason Dean loves the night shift.

He maintains a spotless kitchen, whips up French toast that would make your mother's mouth water, and on slow nights he always keeps things entertaining. Sometimes that means setting up Sean's computer on some illegal stream of the Magic-Heat game. Sometimes that means inventing new recipes and having Dean taste test, and sometimes that leads to items like jalapeno-cream-cheese-burgers landing on the menu. Sometimes that means turning up disco music until Dean can't help but sing along.

"Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight …" Dean mutters, puttering with their cranky old coffee grinder. Then the bell on the door clangs and Dean jumps about a foot in the air. "Luke, there's a customer!"

"I hope they like ABBA!"

Dean rolls his eyes as he turns around—and he can actually feel his ribs unfurl. The Irish Ponytail is back. He's wearing scrubs, light blue, which makes profound sense. Some of Dean's most frequent customers are nurses. Is he a nurse? Maybe a doctor. That would explain why he pops into this hole-in-the-wall diner at crazy vampire hours.

Dean watches— _curiously_ , not at all creepily—while their customer scratches around his collar before selecting a booth near the entrance. After giving him a moment, Dean darts around the counter, then has to backtrack because he forgets his pen and paper. When he finally makes it to the table, the poor man seated there is half-asleep.

"Hey, good evening!" Dean says, shuffling his feet politely so the man will hear him coming.

It's been four days since he last came in, but Dean can still picture that accent in his mind. "Mm—yeah," he mumbles, lifting his head slowly. He tries for a weak smile.

"How are you tonight?" Dean says, hoping it doesn't sound desperate or obvious.

"Good," he says bluntly, which is a shame because Dean would love to hear him speak properly again.

But  _God_  if the poor guy doesn't look exhausted. It would be rude to point it out, so Dean grins instead and asks, "Can I get you a coffee, then?"

" _Please_."

"Anything else for you tonight? Midnight snack?"

"What's good here?"

Dean laughs. "Well, the omelets haven't changed."

Frowning, the guest presses his forehead into the heel of one hand. "Er—how about some fries? Like … a side of fries."

Dean bites his lip. "Sure. I'll be right back with your coffee."

Retreating to the kitchen, Dean puts in the order of fries and reminds Luke to turn down his music. He wonders if it would be weird to ask the Irish guy for his name. Just his name, of course. That wouldn't be weird. They talked for a good twenty minutes the other night.

Back in the front of the house, Dean blinks against the wash of white light. The walls are all windows, but the bright fluorescent lights tangle up this side of the glass so everything looks empty outside, so profoundly black that it could be  _nothing_. Nothing else, only the inside of the diner. The ocean could creep right up to the front door and you wouldn't know it till the sun comes up.

It's cozy, in a Samuel Beckett sort of way.

It also tends to lull people to sleep, especially at two in the morning. Black coffee in hand, Dean approaches the booth where the Irishman has dozed off with one cheek against the window. He really wants to let the poor bloke sleep. But if it were him, honestly, he'd want to get home and get in a giant fluffy bed, not wake up hours later in a hard plastic booth with a crick in his neck.

Sliding the coffee across the table, Dean prods the man's shoulder once, twice, and then harder a third time before he grunts and opens his eyes.

"Oh, god, sorry. Didn't mean to fall asleep." He lets out a spectacular yawn before asking, "Was I out long?"

"No, not at all!" Dean says brightly. "You'll never be as hard to wake up as my dog. He sleeps like a rock."

"You have a dog?!"

Dean blinks.

"I love dogs!" the stranger adds. "What kind is he?"

Dean sucks in a breath, and it sticks in his chest as he realizes—it almost makes him laugh, too—that this guy doesn't remember coming in the other night. Doesn't remember Dean at all.

Good. That's good for a single guy's ego.

"Yeah," he says breathlessly. "Yeah, it's—he's part Staffordshire, part Irish wolfhound."

"Wow, he must be big!"

 _Wouldn't you like to know_ , Dean thinks. Not sure what it means, but he's bitter, you know?

"Yeah, but he's just a big teddy bear."

So it would be weird, after all. To ask for the guy's name. Considering how, for all he knows, they've never met before and all Dean's done tonight is bring him coffee and wake him up from a nice nap. It's a shame, because he's giving those big puppy-eyes again and making "aw" sounds over Dean's dog. Then he smiles.

Dean wants to, but he can't stay bitter.

* * *

Technically, Dean's not allowed to text while he's on the clock, but who's really going to stop him at 5:30 in the morning? They've been slow all night. It left time for a long conversation about Dean's Irish crush.

"You're sure he's Irish?" Luke had asked.

"That's what he said. Something about not wanting to go back to Dublin."

"Well, yeah, compared to Daytona, Dublin's a shithole."

Dean hadn't really believed that, but Luke has always been more—well, more  _technicolor_  than Dean.

"You should ask him out," Luke had plowed on.

"I don't even know his name!"

"So ask."

"I can't just ask, he doesn't—he's only been in twice, Luke."

"Twice?! And you still don't know his name?"

Dean had rolled his eyes at that. "It doesn't come up as easily as you'd think."

"Well, what do you think his name is? What does he  _look_  like?"

"How the fuck is that going to help you guess his name?"

"Dunno, I just want to know if he's cute, really."

"Tall, dark, and handsome," Dean had replied, not exactly joking.

"So he looks like something dashing, like a Jack or a … Victor."

"Oh my god."

"No? Maybe not so cartoon-y. How about James?"

"He's probably straight, anyway. My luck."

"Irish, you said? Maybe his name's Patrick!"

Over the course of the night, Luke's guesses had become increasingly absurd, until he settled on "Leslie" and wouldn't stop asking whether or not "Leslie" had shown up yet.

He had not, incidentally.

Now it's nearly morning, and Dean is scrolling through his phone, and Luke has been dozing in the back room with his feet on Sean's desk for the past half-hour. It may be against the rules, but at least Dean's out in the dining room while texting.

Or maybe he shouldn't be on the phone in front of customers?

Whatever.

He's just made plans to meet up with Lee at the dog park on his day off.

_Carl misses his buddy! xo_

Dean chuckles to himself. Carl is Lee's adorable, if slightly psychotic, pointer mix.

_So does Batman :)_

In reality Batman can barely keep up with Carl, but they get on whenever Carl relaxes long enough to flop down with the rest of them in a patch of shade.

After pocketing his cell phone, Dean puts on two pots of coffee in anticipation of the morning crowd and checks on the two quiet customers seated at opposite ends of the restaurant. They're both content, one with her newspaper open to the sports page and the other scrolling through an e-reader.

The sun is almost up and his shift is almost over, so when the bell on the door clatters, the last person Dean expects to see is that Irish guy, looking more worn down than ever. He's forgone a ponytail today, so all his wild curls burst around his ears. His once scattered stubble has advanced to what can definitely qualify now as a beard.

He's wearing lavender scrubs today, which is great, because Dean's pulse has suddenly skyrocketed to levels that  _might_  require the attendance of a certified health care professional.

Practically stumbling on his feet, he makes it to a seat at the bar near the register and collapses there. Dean can't help but think of twentieth century art and diners with no doors; he thinks of that one trip he took to New Smyrna Beach, how he had just enough time to find a sand dollar washed up, half-hidden in white sand.

"Hey, there," Dean says gently. He asks, "how is everything tonight?" and finds he is quite invested in the answer.

"S'alright, yeah." His shoulders are hunched, one hand folded over the other.

Dean's fingers twitch on the countertop. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"That'd be  _fantastic_."

Dean returns with that black coffee, then watches the poor guy drink half of it in one go, then yawn into the crook of his elbow.

For a second, Dean hesitates. But there's Europop stuck in his head again,  _voices call out to me, straight to my heart_ , and he can't hesitate long. "Rough night?" Dean asks, picking up a coffee mug and wiping it down with a towel.

"Mm, little bit, yeah," the stranger croaks. "Tonight it was stitches. Six or seven patients in, like, two hours. And I have to stitch them up." He flexes his fingers.

"Could be worse," Dean says, shrugging one shoulder.

"Yeah." He sighs and runs a hand through his mane of shiny curls. "Yeah, 'course. Sorry I'm such a downer." He smiles weakly.

"No worries. It's nice finally getting to talk to someone. I've been here seven hours, and I think you're the fourth person to come in."

"Long shift."

"I suppose." Dean starts on another mug. "I'm about to head home, though."

"Oh, no—I'm not keeping you here, am I?" He looks stricken at the thought. He's just come from stitching up wounded people and here Dean is, complaining about sitting on his ass for a few hours.

"No, no, not at all, it's fine! Not like anyone's waiting for me." Dean chuckles awkwardly.  _Smooth_. "Just my lazy dog wanting me to feed him."

"You have a dog?! I love dogs!"

Dean laughs.  _Don't I know it_. "Yeah, me too."

"I don't really have time for one, myself. I have a cat though."

"Really?"

"The ladies love him."

Dean's chest caves in.

"Which is such a  _waste_ ," the Irishman adds, laughing. "Single guy living alone with his cat in the gayest city in America? I'm not exactly keeping any secrets, you know?"

Dean barks with laughter. He feels completely giddy, for some reason, as if his chest is overfull with helium. "Well, a dog won't help you, there," he says. "I take mine to the dog park all the time, and he's shit at picking up men."

They're both cackling now.

"What kind of dog is it?"

Dean takes a deep breath. "He's part Staffordshire, part Irish wolfhound."

He lets out a low whistle in response. "Big puppy."

"His name's Batman."

That knocks a laugh out of the stranger. For fuck's sake, Dean wishes he knew the guy's name. He's quite convinced it's not  _Leslie_.

"Oh! My cat's name is Sláine," he says, fighting a yawn.

"Is—what?"

"Sláine, yeah." He rubs both eyes. "No one's ever heard of him. Celtic superhero."

"Oh! Well, that makes sense," Dean says, leaning forward onto the counter. "Is he popular back in Ireland?"

"Sort of, not like—wait, how did—you can tell just from the accent?"

Dean's heart skips. "What?"

"That I'm Irish," he says, grinning.  _Beaming_. That smile could be weaponized. "Most people here think I'm from Scotland, or even  _England_ ," he says with a grimace.

"Erm, yeah, I just—" Dean laughs, then clears his throat and hastily changes the subject. "I get that, too. Everyone always asks if I'm from Australia."

"Oh," the poor guy droops at the shoulders and his cheeks turn pink. Dean digs his fingernails into his palm. "So —I'm glad I didn't try to guess. Where are you from, then?"

"New Zealand."

"Of course, I should've—well. Sorry." It sounds completely true, and it makes the back of Dean's neck burn. It makes him think about Carl Phillips and flushing toilets; about superhero teams; about driving on the right side of the road; about coffee shops where they write the customer's name on their cup.

"Don't be, I don't mind," he says, and finds that it is also true.

The stranger—he's not a stranger, of course, he's from Ireland and he's a nurse and he likes the beach and he has a cat named Sláine—but what has Dean got to work with?—the stranger swallows down the rest of his coffee and braces himself on the counter. "I better be off, though. Get out of your hair."

"But it's no trouble!" Dean says, setting down his towel and mug frantically. "Really, isn't there anything else I can get you? You've had a long night. We've got plenty of food? More coffee?"

"No, I really ought to go before I K-O in the middle of your diner." He pushes himself up and digs his wallet out of a front pocket. When he opens it, his face falls. "Well, here you go," he says, handing over his debit card. "I hate to charge, like, two bucks, but I haven't got any cash on me."

"Please, don't even…" Dean says, waving both hands. "Don't worry about it."

He gapes at Dean for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, no, I couldn't. Take it."

"It's on me, really."

"I'm not leaving until you take my card," he says, a smile creeping across his lips.

Dean bites down on a smile of his own. Then he gives in and takes the card, even though his hands are shaking. Glances at it, then does a double take.  _Aidan Turner_. He opens his mouth and closes it again. "Come on, mate. You sure?"

"If you don't let me pay, I can't tip you," he says, still with that sly curl of his mouth.

Dean ducks his head and busies himself at the register, because he's quite sure he can feel a furious blush spreading across his cheeks.

Aidan pays double for that coffee, and dashes from the diner before Dean can say thank you. He checks the receipt, then checks it again. Definitely not Leslie.

* * *

 

Dean stretches his neck and relaxes back into Lee's old lawn chair. They quit the dog park hours ago in favor of Lee's backyard and summer shandy. The sun is set, now, and Lee gets up to light a few of those insect-repellant candles. "So besides flirting with a semi-regular customer with an Irish accent, anything else going on?" Lee asks.

Dean yawns. "Nothing, really. Thinking about going to the beach to take pictures."

"Oh, that's a good idea!" Lee exclaims. He pauses to toss a tennis ball for Carl, then turns back to Dean. "We should both go, we could get something for the graphic design project."

Dean hums and adjusts his sunglasses, giving Batman a good belly rub while Lee rambles about Photoshop and lens flares.

Carl dives back into their midst, and Batman lurches to his feet. They bark wildly for a moment before tackling their respective owners.

"Oh my god, chill, you idiot!" Lee says with a completely transparent smile. He tosses the tennis ball again. Neither dog moves an inch. "You're hopeless."

Dean laughs.

While Batman and Carl wag their tails expectantly, Lee rummages in a wicker basket full of squeak-toys.

He pulls out a stuffed fox and squeezes it. Immediately, Carl stands at attention. Lee laughs. "This one is his favorite. Isn't it your favorite? You like the fox?"

Carl barks, and Lee rolls his eyes before throwing the toy.

"What beach were you thinking about going to?" Lee asks.

Before Dean can answer, a piercing wail cuts through the quiet night, and they both jump about a foot in the air.

"What the—"

The noise doesn't stop. It's bloodcurling, like metal dragging against concrete, and it's so bizarre and hair-raising that it takes Dean several seconds to realize  _Batman_  is making that noise.

"Oh, my god—"

His dog barrels into him, whining pitifully. "Bat, you're okay, what—"

"Carl! What did you do?!"

Batman wails.

"Let me see, boy, what's—"

"Is he okay? I'm so sorry—"

"—fine, I can't see anything, baby—"

Batman won't shut up, but he takes it down a few decibels, and he sits still long enough for Dean to inspect him. He takes his dog's muzzle in both hands and finds a big red gash under one eye.

"He okay?" Lee asks, one hand gripped tightly around his dog's collar.

"Oh, no, he's got a cut."

Batman whines.

"I'm so sorry—bad, Carl, that's a bad dog—"

"He's fine," Dean says, and it's true. Once he soothes his dog and gets him to relax a bit, he calms down, but whenever Dean tries to inspect the wound, Batman twists away. "I mean, I think he's okay. Maybe—shit, he's bleeding, though."

"I'll get a towel."

It doesn't help, though. Not enough. After about five minutes of Batman groaning and crying pitifully, despite Dean's ministrations, he feels a bit lost. "Maybe we should take him to the vet, or something."

"Nothing's open this time of night, though!"

Dean glances at his watch. Ten-thirty. But his dog is miserable, and realistically, yeah, he's probably fine, but it's a bad cut and it's bleeding a bit and Batman's his baby, after all.

He lets out a deep breath. "Hey—there's an emergency vet near my diner."

"Are they open 24 hours?!" Lee exclaims, and when Dean nods, he immediately adds, "I'll drive."

Dean rides in the backseat with his ridiculous giant infant of a dog. The closer they get to the veterinarian, the more Batman calms down, which makes Dean feel silly for freaking out. But then Batman starts to yawn, and he howls instead because stretching his muzzle must hurt—it's such a deep cut—and Dean feels like he's doing the right thing.

All the way out of the car, across the parking lot, and up to the receptionist's desk, Lee apologizes profusely.

"It's fine," Dean says, and "don't worry about it" and "Carl didn't mean to."

Dean checks in absent-mindedly, and the woman behind the desk tells him to have a seat.

"Seriously, my dog is an idiot, I'll lock him in the kennel for a week—"

"Lee, I promise it's fine. They were just playing. It happens."

A door opens at the end of the waiting room. "Batman?" a voice calls.

Dean gathers his crybaby dog up and herds him toward the open door. A young woman with a bob greets them, and tuts when she gets a look at Batman's injury. "Poor baby," she says as she adjusts the scale and writes down his weight on a clipboard.

She says something about "minor cuts" and painkillers and long nights, before finally saying, "let me go grab a doctor. I'm sure the poor boy will be fine!"

And then they wait. It's late, and Batman is whining—it's almost inaudible, but he is—and Dean gazes around the room and the sterile off-whites and the latex gloves in assorted sizes. He thinks about Edward Hopper and midnight contrasts.

A knock raps on the other side of the door and immediately it opens to their little examination room. The doctor enters, his nose buried in a clipboard.

But it doesn't matter, because all Dean sees is the ponytail.

"Aidan?!" he says, standing up. "You're a  _vet_?"

The doctor looks up. They make eye contact, and Dean's knees feel a little weak.

Aidan is wearing black scrubs, this time, but there's no mistaking that curly hair or those long eyelashes. His eyebrows furrow. "Do we know each other?"

Shit.

"Erm—not—well, I work at the diner?" Dean says, utterly breathless. "The little diner down the … well." He waves his hand uselessly in the direction of his restaurant.

Aidan frowns, and Dean blushes. He's about to collapse into a pile of ash from embarrassment, but then Aidan's eyes widen and his face splits into that unforgettable smile. "Oh, my god! I've  _been_  there!"

"Yeah?"

"You're the waiter!"

Dean breathes again. " _Yeah_."

"Fuck, I am so sorry."

"I'm—oh—it's fine, really," Dean exhales.

"I'm an idiot."

"No!"

"Sorry, I just…" Aidan stares for a moment, then glances at Batman, then back at Dean. "So this is Batman."

"The one and only."

Aidan scrubs at his face and takes a deep breath. "So—I should—shit, let's—shit." He takes another breath. "Why don't we have a look at you, darling?" he says, kneeling down to Batman's level. Dean can't tell for sure, it might be a trick of the shadows, but Aidan's face looks beet-red.

Several minutes pass in silence while Aidan inspects the dog. He takes Batman's face in both hands and turns it gently to one side, then the other. Batman whimpers, and Aidan coos at him. When Batman's tongue flicks out to lick Aidan's palm, it makes him giggle, and it makes Dean's heart thud against his ribs.

"Come here. Look at me, little man. …. Aw, poor dear," he says, before straightening up again. "He looks good."

Dean sucks in a breath. "Really? I probably shouldn't have worried, but he wouldn't shut up, and he stopped bleeding in the car, but we already—"

"No, no, it's good that you came. It's a deep cut. How did he get it?"

"Oh—" Dean feels kind of bad for incriminating Carl, so he tries to shrug it off. "Not a big deal at all. Just my friend's dog—sort of bit him, not really though, they were just playing."

"It's a dog bite?"

"…Sort of."

"But you know the dog?"

"Yes, definitely!" Dean says quickly. "He's a good friend, they play together all the time. Really, I probably overreacted—"

"Not at all! We'll just get him fixed up and he'll be fine," Aidan smiles at Dean, then bends down in front of Batman again. "Won't you?" he says, his voice leaping an octave. "You'll be alright, mate. We'll just give you a couple staples," he says, looking up at Dean, "if that's alright?"

"Of course."

"And you'll be good to go!"

It really is that simple, too. Dean feels like an imbecile.

He apologizes to Aidan the entire time he's stapling his dog's face back together.

When he's finished and Dean has said "sorry" for the forty-eighth time, Aidan turns to Dean and squeezes his shoulder. (Dean falls silent in half a second.)

"Seriously, it's good you came in," Aidan says, shooting him that ruinous smile. "It was quite deep, it could've gotten infected or something."

"If you say so."

"I do," Aidan insists. Then he kneels in front of Batman again and takes his face in his hands. "You be good for Daddy, alright? Don't go scratching those staples or trying to pull them out, you hear me? Doctor's orders!"

Dean laughs.

Aidan is still looking intently at Batman when he clears his throat. "So, this is Batman, but—I'm sorry, I still don't know your name."

"Oh. Oh, I'm—Dean. It's Dean."

Aidan looks up at him, still kneeling on the floor with one hand tangled in Batman's blond fur. "Nice to meet you, Dean."

"Nice to meet you, too."

They both grin.

Then Aidan turns red again, and he pulls himself up to talk business. He discusses medication and return visits and the Cone of Shame, never once looking up from his clipboard. After the long rambling monologue, Dean reaches out to touch his forearm. Aidan freezes.

"It's fine," says Dean, "just tell us when to be back, and we'll see you again."

Aidan looks up, eyes round. In the background, Batman whimpers, but it's half-hearted.

"Well—the staples will have to stay in for two months," Aidan says, glancing at his clipboard, and then back to Dean again. "So you can make an appointment out front, or you can call in again in a few weeks."

"Two months?"

Aidan nods.

Dean clears his throat and takes a long look at Aidan—his pink cheeks and the way his knuckles whiten around his clipboard.

"Do you think I'd be able to see you any sooner than that?" Dean says softly.

"Sooner?"

A beat of silence passes, and then—

"Oh!" Aidan cries. "Oh. Oh, I—yeah." He laughs awkwardly. "Maybe I'll be in the diner one of these nights."

Dean bites down on a smile. "I was thinking we could get coffee, or something. Preferably while I'm not on the clock."

Definitely, definitely Aidan's cheeks are red, now. No doubt. Of course, Dean thinks his must be too—it feels very hot in the little examination room.

"Okay," Aidan says.

"Okay?"

They both laugh.

"Yeah. Okay, okay," Aidan says again. "How about I make it official and give you my card?" he adds with a wink.

Dean giggles. "Can I call this number any time?"

"No—" Aidan reaches out, and takes the business card again to scribble something on the back. "Here," he says, "here's my mobile number. You know, in case Batman needs a check-up."

"Hmm," Dean laughs. He really can't stop smiling. "I'll be sure to keep an eye on him."

"Good."

Dean's hand is on the doorknob when something occurs to him. "How's Sláine?" he asks.

Aidan gapes at him. "He's—what? How did you …"

"Your cat, right?"

"Yeah, I'm … how did you know his name?"

"We, er, talked about him a couple days ago. In the diner."

Aidan stares. Then he bursts into laughter, cheeks burning. "My cat's good, he's really good." He rubs the back of his neck. Then his voice softens. "You'll text me, yeah? I think we need to—catch up," he says, biting his lip.

"Yeah," says Dean, "I'll text you." He holds up the card Aidan gave him, thinking of all the ways he can thank Lee and Carl.


End file.
